Luke
The black vinyl in my grip remains pristine despite the continuous abuse it takes at my hand. A learned behavior from my mother. Repetition is beautiful and necessary. It conditions the mind and the soul. Something as simple as a record that plays on repeat can teach the heart to beat the same way every day.
And that is what I do.
I beat in the same thump-thump-tha-thump way because she taught me to.
Steady. Steady. Steady.
The world around you grows unfocused so that what’s in front of you becomes clear as a shard of glass in your palm. Nothing else matters.
I stare at the record and smile. It’s her favorite one. There was a time when I’d even dance with her to our song. Hold Mom close and nuzzle my nose in her soft hair.
She’s too fragile now.
Too delicate.
At one time, she was in mind and spirit, and now she is in body too.
My heart breaks again and again and again.
As steady as the pounding of my heart.
The breaking is a constant and as repetitious as the breaths I take. The grumbles in my stomach. The weight that sheds from my emaciated body.
Every day is the same.
Though not for long. The neighbors have noticed my tricks and they’ve managed to have the water shut off. It won’t be long before the electricity goes too. I could go to the diner—Mom’s favorite one—and seek out familiar faces in hope of receiving their help, but I won’t.
“I’ll be back,” I promise Mom, toying with a strand of her long blond hair.
We don’t discuss why I’m leaving in the first place.
I’m a failure. I tried and I failed. Mom took care of me, but I’m unable to take care of her. I’m no man. Nothing more than a boy pretending to be one. Eighteen years on this earth and I have nothing to show for myself. I’m fading away and I can’t even care for her like she cared for me.
The bitter tears of disappointment burn in my eyes, but I blink them away to smile at Mom. She loves it when I smile now. At one time, my smiles reminded her too much of my father. But I’m not him. I’m my own man. Boy. One day I’ll be stronger and better than he ever could be. And then I’ll come back to her as a man. I’ll show her I have it in me. I can be a good man.
With a heavy sigh, I lift the wooden lid of the record player and secure it with the foldout bar. I place her favorite record onto the device and then lift the needle. Carefully, I set it down on the edge and then turn the power on.
Crackling.
Always the same.
It makes the hairs stand up on my arms and a small shudder of anticipation ripple through me. Then, like a sad sigh, the piano begins playing. Moments later, the voice of an angel sings out “Ave Maria” composed by Franz Schubert.
The stress and self-doubt bleeds from me. I’m reminded that I’m a good boy. I’m doing the right thing. Mom knows this. That’s why she doesn’t argue the matter. These days, her mind makes perfect sense. I understand her now.
“You shouldn’t dance,” I chide, noticing the playful way she holds her head tilted just so to one side. She’s missing the smile I used to love, but it’s not necessary in this moment.
A laugh escapes me. It’s been far too long.
“I could hurt you,” I explain, though we both know she’ll win.
She doesn’t let up and continues to look my way. Waiting. A good boy doesn’t disappoint his mother. Not anymore.
“One last dance.” I chuckle for both of us. “I’ll be gentle, Mom.”
Life has a way of sucking the soul out of you. My poor mother has been its victim for far too long. She deserves peace. I believe this because I’m a good son. A terrible son would wallow in the horrible things she did when she wasn’t well and argue that she deserves something awful. Those things are in the past. She wasn’t right then. It wasn’t her fault. I’ve forgiven her.
I kneel in front of her on the sofa and push a strand of her blond hair from her face. Easily, I hoist her frail body into my arms. She weighs next to nothing lately. I may be half starved, but I will always be able to carry my mother. It’s a son’s duty in life. Why we eventually grow to be strong men.
The singer is belting out her beautiful words and I sway to the music with Mom in my arms. I kiss her forehead. I’m going to miss her so much.
We dance and dance and dance until the song ends. I’m conned into one more dance. This one is surely the last. I’ll need to leave soon. The hunger is a gnawing beast that eats me alive from the inside out and if I have any hopes of surviving so I can come back to Mom, I need to leave. To find him. To grow strong again.
The song ends and I sigh.
It’s time.
She’s quiet as I sit her down, this time in a quainter place than the sofa. Dark and warm. I don’t want to put her there, but we both know it’s for the best. There are people in this world who don’t understand love and the power it holds over people. I must protect her—protect the both of us—from what they might think.
I make sure to grab my only possession—a hand-me-down from my mother—and then Mom and I leave. We’ll make a stop by my favorite place before I go. She always wanted me to leave the house and see the world. I was too stubborn—too afraid to leave her. I’ve taken great strides in proving to her the man I can be. I explored and saw things. I’ll continue to see more. For her. The music continues to play from inside the house as I walk down the steps. It’s dark out and no one is watching me. Not tonight. They prefer to glare my way during the day.
“Tonight is ours, Mom.”
This pleases her. It pleases us both.
I walk and walk, winding through the streets of our neighborhood until I make it to the woods I sometimes visit when I want to scream at the world and need privacy to do it. Mom will enjoy the seclusion and the echoes of my screams that still haunt the forest.
Our trek continues until I’m dizzy and exhausted. I find a patch of soft earth beyond some bushes between two trees. It feels right here. We’re both quiet as I set her down. My fingers press into the dirt. It easily moves at my persistence. It wants to obey me. The thought thrills me.
Ignoring the bouts of lightheadedness, I dig with my cupped hands until I’m sweaty and trembling. I sniffle, hating that she’ll see my tears.
“I’ll be fine,” I assure her.
I’m not so sure.
It’s a big world out there.
What if he doesn’t want me?
On impulse, I grab my only possession I’ll take with me. My mother’s Bible. I try not to dirty up the pages, but I’m desperate to find him.
Not my father. Trenton can rot in fucking hell for all I care.
Him.
Charles.
My uncle.
The picture flutters out and lands in my lap. I drop the Bible to pick up the photo. Mom was a nun. In the picture she can’t be any older than eighteen or so. Before she was pregnant with me. Beside her, the man sits stiffly with a regal smile on his face. On the back, written in her pretty handwriting, it says, “Siblings Charles and Taylee Greene.”
I never knew I had an uncle and I try not to be angry at Mom for not telling me. Sometimes being a man is discovering some of life’s mysteries on your own. This one, I found and when Mom had nothing to say about it in return, I let it go.